


Desert

by SquigglyAverageJoe



Series: Definitely one of my stranger ships, but let me tell you, I think this ship looks pretty cool on the metaphorical calm waters of the ocean that doesn’t exist and I like writing for this ship. [1]
Category: The Legend of Zelda: Hyrule Warriors
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:22:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23761510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SquigglyAverageJoe/pseuds/SquigglyAverageJoe
Relationships: Ghirahim/Zant (Legend of Zelda)
Series: Definitely one of my stranger ships, but let me tell you, I think this ship looks pretty cool on the metaphorical calm waters of the ocean that doesn’t exist and I like writing for this ship. [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1712632
Kudos: 16





	Desert

Ghirahim was, in general and in simple terms, in a very bad mood. He was not fond of the desert, and wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about being revived and forced to serve a man who held either the same or similar power to his old master, which was strange, because if there was one thing he was certain of it was how he felt about his old master, with an unwavering loyalty that was just a constant in his existence. He was not very fond of the idea of serving anyone else, though he had willingly served the sorceress, and definitely wasn’t about to _not_ serve Ganondorf. And he was certainly fond of the idea of tearing through whoever got in his way once more and satisfying his constantly growing bloodlust that had only seemed to grow through every time he was inactive (whether his inactivity was trigged by being shattered into trillions of pieces and being blown away by the wind because he very much remembered that, remembered his entire existence seemingly ending and remembered losing all of the senses he had had, or by being thrown into the Gate of Souls he was meant to defend from that petulant Skychild lookalike) but just as fond of the idea of the entire world letting him be, letting him sort through the whirring tempest his mind had been ever since that horrible, goddess serving/saving brat bested his master and he had disappeared from his plane of existence ~~because once he sorted through the insanity his mind seemed to be, he was sure he could figure out something, some way to help his master, because surely he wasn’t _truly_ gone, he hadn’t been really defeated before, he could figure something out, and he was certain he wouldn’t be back as The Imprisoned. Demise would be back, his master, and he’d be ready to serve him once more, because his current master was nothing to his last one.~~

But Ghirahim was starting to realize, with a growing certainty, that he was not fond of his co-lieutenant.

And why _would_ he be? He wasn’t stable! The man’s sanity was _questionable_ , at _best,_ and honestly, in Ghirahim’s brutal opinion, he seemed like a brat. But not a brat like the Skychild had been, he wasn’t as bad as him—he loathed them in two different ways, one because he seemed so totally incompetent, the other because he had been, perhaps, too competent. More competent than Ghirahim had obviously given him credit for in their first meeting. ~~Now if only _that_ brat had been intelligent enough to understand what Ghirahim had truly been offering him— _mercy._ He had allowed him to leave, give him a chance to escape so he didn’t have to suffer by Ghirahim’s hands, he had been in the middle of something anyway, and didn’t need his bloodlust satisfied at the moment, so of course he could leave! Just some pesky boy from the sky, probably just like everyone else from here, with no use or meaning to Ghirahim or anyone.~~

The desert was unbearably warm—the air felt dry, hot and heated the metal beneath his pale skin that he knew, if it had been the skin of a Hylian, would burn in the direct sunlight beating down on all of them from all angles, and overall, it just gave off discomfort. He didn’t have the faintest idea why anyone would live there, the heat was horrid, why would anyone stay and why were _they_ staying? Because it was a foothold against the Hyrulean forces, he had had quite enough of them. He had had his fill of fighting them long before they had ever really been Hyruleans, that frustrating hero!

The nights, he supposed, were, however, tolerable.

It wasn’t so hellishly warm, the wind bringing a nightly chill to the air that he couldn’t feel the same way everyone else could, but he found it pleasant feeling on his fake skin. The wind never messed up his hair or anything and the desert grew quiet. He liked it—it was calm, peaceful even, and usually he was alone.

It must have been about the fifth night in the desert, after a long battle that left a few trails of black showing through his skin, mostly on his arms, mostly covered by his gloves and cape, and he was spending the night in solitude—until the co-lieutenant he was not fond of appeared, just all of a sudden there and standing somewhere behind him, silent.

”Do you stand there every night or just when I crave being left alone?” Ghirahim asked.

”Only tonight,” he answered. Ghirahim didn’t even turn to face him.

”And why, might I ask? I’m sure it’s not to admire my form in the moonlight, or to make conversation with me—so why are you _here,_ in the exact place I am in this vast desert when I obviously long to be alone?”

Zant seemed to go from being still and quiet to shouting and moving everywhere—he was still and quiet right now. Surely though, he’d snap soon. “You were struck, by the Darknut. I saw the damage done to your form, demon. I wondered if you were alright.”

”Well, perhaps if my co-lieutenant was _competent_ in battle even slightly more,” Ghirahim started, eying him.

Slowly, Zant’s mask retracted, the mouth guard retracting and then—wait, Zant wore a mask?

”Oh,” he said. He turned back the way he had been originally facing. “I thought that was your face.”

”You thought my face was made out of a dark colored metal?” It almost sounded like a sneer.

Ghirahim snapped his fingers—his gloves vanished in a mist of diamonds, and he turned around, supporting himself on his arms, mostly. They were also now, totally black, smooth and flawless. “Mine is,” he responded, licking his lips, mostly to try and intimidate him.

He looked at Zant’s actual face—his eyes had no pupils, no iris, just a orange shade, like the sky when the sun began to set in this desert, and his skin was a teal shade. He couldn’t understand his expression—he had slits on the corner of his mouth that made it difficult to tell whether he was smiling, or frowning, or anything. If Zant was intimidated, it didn’t show, likely due to those slits. “You mentioned your previous master earlier,” he said.

”Yes,” Ghirahim sighed. “Demise. He was long before this time—before yours. He existed long before Hyrule was so much as a _thought._ ” Skychild and his stupid friends from the sky had turned the surface into their stupid kingdom, with the spirit maiden ruling over them. They had been stupid—had they not understood Demise’s curse?

Zant’s eyes seemed to narrow. “You don’t hold the same loyalty to Ganondorf as you do him...Are you loyal to him, even long after his apparent end?”

Ghirahim _loathed_ his co-lieutenant. He _despised_ him. Everything about him, his baggy clothes that weren’t functional for battle or even stylish, his voice, the fact that he had strategies ranging from relatively decent to _excellent,_ his horrid looking mask that covered his face and kept him from being able to read his expression!

The desert nights continued to grow on him—but now, all that seemed to be on his mind was Demise as he stood, mulling over every thought in his mind, with the cool desert breeze washing over his skin. That wasn’t new—Demise was his master, and yes, he was useful to Ganondorf as a lieutenant, but he was Demise’s _weapon._ What was a sword with no one to wield it? A tool after years of disuse...A tool that actively pursued the one thing that would give him the revival of his master, and when he finally was back, _after all those years_ , was too focused on the enemy he didn’t know to spare even a _word_ for his most loyal servant, who had waited for so long. But of course, that was his duty, to serve Demise—even when Demise didn’t seem to particularly care about his service. Even though, despite his service, his years and years of it, Demise had still lost. and the last thing Ghirahim had processed before falling into an endless, cold, oblivion was that terrible Skychild, with eyes that looked like pieces of the sky and a sword no child could truly wield, emerge victorious, cursed, yes, but still _alive._

Ghirahim had all but thrown himself onto that brat’s blade, letting the stinging bite of the sharp edge harm him, just to buy more time, and it wasn’t like he hadn’t noticed that he was being forced to the edge of each and every platform, he had noticed he was getting to close to it the first time, and then noticed that Link was just repeating it, but it didn’t matter—he just had to keep him distracted, long enough so he could succeed, it didn’t matter. 

Had that been, perhaps, why Demise had failed? Because his weapon had already been damaged? Had Ghirahim failed his master, by letting Link best him, because at that point, had he even been trying? In the moment, he was giving it his everything, but now, he felt like he should have put more effort into it, for his master.

He had tried to hard, and every attempt never mattered, not against him. _His master couldn’t even beat a child._ Sometimes, Ghirahim could feel his anger broiling beneath his skin, because in that horrible, horrible way, he and Link were, disgustingly, the same. Neither of them really mattered, both devoted themselves to who they were serving, and only one of them had emerged victorious. And that hadn’t been him. In that way, Link had kind of been his equal, and a part of Ghirahim thought that maybe he deserved his victory, maybe it was Demise’s fault for not being able to beat him, seemingly cursing him merely out of spite and hatred, because he hadn’t won, but his curse seemed to make sure he’d never truly lose, and he hadn’t _cared_ about the centuries Ghirahim had spent, still so loyal to his master, longing for his return, bringing about his return at last!

No. _No._ Ghirahim was not angry at his master. He never would be. He was Demise’s. He had no right to be angry at the owner of him, his master, the one who wielded him! He wasn’t angry (except at maybe Link), he was just...frustrated.

Yes. Frustration. That was it—Frustrated that his master had been bested by a child, he wasn’t angry. He wasn’t.

”You are out here again, demon lord.” He didn’t even turn to look at Zant.

”And you are bothering me again, usurper king.” He flicked some of his hair out of his face—didn’t Zant understand he was brooding? He needed solitude right now.

”You seemed...deep in thought. I wondered if it was because of what I said to you the other night.”

He turned around, finally, wanting to tear into his co-lieutenant. “My master,” he seethed. “Was the only person _worthy_ of wielding me and, in truth, _I_ was not worthy to be wielded by him. Ganondorf couldn’t hold a candle up to him!” Why he said that so loudly, when he would definitely not like Ganondorf to hear that, was beyond him, he was just angry now. “I will be loyal to him until the final end of my days, because he has not _truly_ reached his end—one part of him lives on, and that one part is enough for me!” That one part was also, obviously, his current master.

”’One part?’” Zant asked.

”His hatred lives on,” Ghirahim said. “And my loyalty will never cease.”

”That is a good trait to possess.” Zant wasn’t wearing his mask. “I suppose.”

”Well, you may suppose, but I know!” He felt the need to defend his master and his loyalty towards him.

”...There is a connection,” Zant began. “Between your master Demise and Ganondorf.”

Ghirahim scowled. “What are you on about?”

”That what you said the other day, is it not? That there is an obvious connection between them?” Ghirahim wished to learn what emotion rested behind his unreadable expression.

”Of course there is. Reincarnation.” He flicked his hair again. “The same is the connection between the cursed hero and princess of this time and every hero and princess before them in every legend.”

”...Your master failed you,” Zant said.

Ghirahim could feel his fingers curl into a fist. “What?”

”I do not know how I know, but your master who you so worship obviously failed you, and yet, you still seem to wish to serve him.”

”My master did not fail me!” Ghirahim argued. “I failed him!” That felt just as bad. He had failed, he was the reason Demise was no longer.

”...If it is of any consolation, Ghirahim,” Zant said. “My god failed me in my time.”

“Your god?” Ghirahim could not help his curiosity—he wanted answers, he wanted a distraction and...a part of him wanted to bridge the strange gap between him and his co-lieutenant, but maybe that was his obvious sorrow talking.

”Also named Ganondorf,” Zant said. “And when I fell to the hero of my time and that imp of a princess, he was meant to revive me, but never did.” His tone sounded bitter, almost. “...I regret letting her live. She thought I was being arrogant, I was being merciful, and mercy was what seemed to lead to my own demise.” Ghirahim’s lips twitched, but he wasn’t sure if he was going to smile. “...Though, in hindsight, none of my actions for my ‘god’ really feel like it was worth it. If I could, I would go back and I would never help him—he was no god. Even if it was the only way of achieving what I wanted, I loathe him enough that I think I would rather be in whatever afterlife awaits me, then here.”

Ghirahim had never felt so similar to someone before. “We should conquer the world together. Just kill all the Hylians and anyone who tries to stop us.”

”It would be a good pastime,” Zant seemed to agree.

In the end, the desert was not the only thing growing on him.


End file.
